


You Made Me Forget Myself, I Thought I was Someone Else

by MillicentCordelia



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/pseuds/MillicentCordelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I may as well explain our cover story. I’m the only son of parents who make the late Thomas and Martha Wayne appear poor. I’m an eccentric philanthropist who collects- among other things- pre-Columbian pottery, and gorgeous men. You’re my latest acquisition. So whenever anyone else is around, make a fuss over me.”</p><p>Jim responded with an incredulous stare. “You’re kidding.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Animals in the Zoo

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Gobblepotweek2015. I decided to post it for “Anything Goes” day. It’s a scene re-write, and an AU as well. The idea for this came from one of the wonderful artworks on Selene’s gobblepot NSFW blog. I don’t want to post which one until the end of the fic, however, as it would give away what’s happening here.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Selene; with a huge “thank you” for all the pleasure she brings to me and others through her enormous talent and her enchanting blogs!
> 
> The title of the piece is from Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day”, as are the chapter titles.

Jim entered the water a little at a time, letting his body adjust to what felt, at first, like ice water. By the time he was up to his waist, the pool seemed deliciously cool; he let go of the ladder and kicked off from it as he allowed himself to fall backwards. He swam a couple of laps, savoring the respite from the late summer heat. He dove, and noticed there were fish swimming around him. That seemed odd, and the bottom of the pool didn’t seem to exist; at least he couldn’t see it. Confused, he decided to surface. 

He swam to the side, climbed out of the pool; sat down on a plastic chair, and began drying his hair with a beach towel. Barbara walked up and stood beside him, holding another towel. He was going to tell her about his strange experience, when she hit him across the face, knocking him out of the chair. Kneeling on his chest, she pressed the towel over his face; he tried to fight her off, but she was strong, stronger than him, and he couldn’t breathe. Then he was falling...........

He landed on the bedroom floor, hard enough to hurt; and more than hard enough to wake himself up. He cursed as he untangled himself from the sweaty sheet, and climbed back into bed. He looked at the alarm clock and groaned; the alarm wasn’t going off for another hour, not that it mattered. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the air conditioner in his cramped, dismal efficiency had broken down, and that was two weeks ago. The company that managed the building told him he was “on the list”, that many residents in his building were without air conditioning, and they’d fix it as soon as possible. Meanwhile, day after day, temperatures soared to record highs.

He lay in bed listening to the whir of the electric fan and the traffic noise that wafted in through the open window. If he and Lee hadn’t broken up, he could’ve been staying at her place. He felt guilty for wishing they were still together, just so he could sleep in a place with air-conditioning; and, angry at Lee for forcing his hand. 

Right after Barbara’d been locked away in Arkham, Lee’d started in on him. She wanted him to see a therapist, get trauma counseling, maybe consider taking an anti-depressant. He’d told her no, but she kept bringing it up, over and over, until he lost his temper and yelled at her. Dropped a coffee cup in her kitchen sink and broke it. Yeah, ok, he didn’t drop the cup, he threw it. She hadn’t needed to make it into a drama; it was her fault for nagging him. It wasn’t as if he’d hit her-hell, he’d never do that. But somehow, he always ended up being the bad guy, just because he wanted a little peace and quiet at the end of the day.

It wasn’t fair, but whatever. He gave up on sleep and got up, almost as tired as he’d been when he went to bed. Breakfast consisted of a can of iced tea- it was too hot to even think about making coffee- and some low-fat graham crackers. He seriously considered a beer, but thought better of it. 

As he was leaving his apartment, his next-door neighbor ambushed him. “Hey, you! I’ve told you about making alla that noise, y’ever think anybody else in the building needs to sleep?”

Jim grit his teeth. “ Good morning, Mrs. Sprague, I’m sorry about the noise. I fell out of bed; having a nightmare.” He could hear a small child wailing somewhere behind the door she was holding open. 

“You’ll think nightmare if I call the cops, an’ I’m just about ready to.” She shook her finger at him. She was probably sticking her chin out, too, or she would have been if she’d had one. The way her head seemed to flow into her neck, combined with her heavy lidded eyes, she looked like an unhappy, skinny bullfrog.

He attempted to smile. “As I’ve previously explained, Mrs. Sprague, I’m ‘the cops’.”

“I meant the REAL cops, you assclown!” She retreated; slamming the door so hard his ears rang.

_________________________________

Getting out into the fresh air would have been a relief, if there had been any fresh air to get into. The muggy air trapped odors and held them close to the ground, so that all of Gotham smelled like a cross between diesel exhaust and an outdoor toilet. 

At least outdoors had the advantage of being away from the vicinity of Mrs. Sprague. True, there’d been a few nights when he’d been out drinking with Harvey, that he came home late and accidentally knocked over some pieces of furniture. So, he wasn’t perfect. So, he had no friends, except for Harvey; almost everyone in homicide hated him, and he’d been busted all the way down to being a traffic cop. So what.

Today was his day off, but he’d volunteered- along with a dozen of his co-workers- for a cleanup detail. It’d look good in his personnel file, which needed all the help it could get. The city government had just rolled out the highly publicized “Mayor’s Action Plan” to make downtown Gotham a safer, more appealing environment; and to placate the wealthy who were gentrifying the area. The mayor’s philosophy was simple: no rich people, no tax base. Homeless people were unsightly, and beggars spoiled the ambiance; so city services were removing them. Where they were taken, God only knew; the homeless shelters were already overflowing, as was Arkham Asylum and the local jails. They were whisked out of town and sent someplace, and if you wanted to keep your job you kept your head down and didn’t ask questions. 

Jim worked with the group tasked with cleaning up the mess after the homeless were herded onto decrepit buses and driven away. They’d congregated into settlements in alleys, under overpasses, in condemned buildings, even in junkyards where wrecked cars were used as makeshift shelters. They left behind an assortment of bedding, tents, and debris that served as a sad testament to what their lives had been reduced to. Sometimes Jim found things that make him want to cry-like photographs, baby bottles, and broken toys. Mostly, he felt angry or numb. 

That afternoon they were working in an alley. Jim was holding his breath against the stench of a pile of blankets he was stuffing into a trash bag, when he felt something grab his ankle. Thrown off balance, he fell, scraping his face on the asphalt. His efforts to get back up were hampered by a pale, skeletal man who seemed determined to chew on  
Jim’s work boot. It took three officers to disengage the guy from his prize. The whole time he was being dragged away, he screamed and cackled about how the cops were all Satan’s disciples.

Jim halfway believed it was true.

__________________________

Two days later, life had gotten even better. Jim left the precinct after having been fired, by Gillian Loeb, for an inane technicality. He felt sorry for Sarah, and the way Loeb chose to humiliate her; but at least she still had a job. He’d shot his mouth off, threatened Loeb, and now felt like an idiot. 

He knew where he had to go. He hated the thought, but Oswald Cobblepot was the only person he knew who was in a position to help him. He’d always been able to push the strange little man around; but after the way he treated Cobblepot over the attempted murder of Don Falcone, he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed in the door. 

He knew where Cobblepot’s new headquarters were. He couldn’t drive, as his car was broken down and he was too broke to get it fixed, so he changed into his one remaining decent suit and took the subway. He tried to prepare a mental script of what he’d say once he got there. 

When he reached the building, he squared his shoulders, and gave himself a pep talk: go in arrogant, act like you own the place. He strolled up to the muscle outside the front door. “Please tell Mr. Cobblepot that James Gordon’s here to see him.” It was gratifying that within minutes, he was ushered into the Penguin’s presence. The room was spacious, tastefully and expensively decorated. Flames flickered in the substantial fireplace, before which was set a throne-like chair.

Oswald stood to greet him.  


“James. My dear old friend.” The cold glint in his eyes belied his words.  


Jim looked around the room, at the assortment of toughs and thugs; and, surprisingly, Selina Kyle sitting on a table that looked like it’d been imported from a castle in Scotland. “We need to talk."  


Oswald waved a hand. “Leave us.” The men hurried out. Selina moved slowly, deliberately; insolently looking Jim up and down on her way out. Finally, they were alone.  


Jim started, almost hesitantly; not quite the way he’d rehearsed it. “I need a favor. I figure you owe me one.”  


“I do? I’m always happy to help you Jim, but I don’t recall...”  


“The hospital. I saved you from Maroni’s men.”  


“But I was only there because you arrested me.”  


“For attempted murder. Remind me again why I let you go.”  


“I’d call us even, but let’s not quibble. I’m so happy you came to me for help, Jim. Whatever your wish is, I’ll grant it-even if you’re not sure what you want. Oh, I know what you think you want-Loeb gone, and your old job back. Tell me, have you considered a career change? Police work in Gotham is such a thankless job.”  


“The pension plan is first rate.”  


“What does Lee think?”  


“Who?” Jim felt like slapping the smirk off Cobblepot’s face, but he swallowed his anger. “You seem to know a lot about things that are none of your business."  


"Your former partner, Mr. Bullock, eagerly accepts the generosity of anyone willing to pick up his bar tab, and he loves to talk. The point is, I need to know if you have any reasons that you couldn't leave Gotham, because I'm going to make you a job offer."  


"No, there aren’t any reasons, and no, I'm not interested."  


"Hear me out. Everyone thinks that I'm the new king of the underworld, and the playing field's been leveled. Nothing could be farther from the truth. You were with Dick Lovecraft the day he was murdered, but do you know why he was killed? He knew too much about the real "powers that be" in Gotham. They're engaged in a power struggle of their own. Gotham will soon become their battlefield, and until the dust settles, I can't risk forming alliances with any of them. The smart thing to do is to take a leave of absence; retreat to a safe haven until they sort out their differences. After a year, or two, I'll be able to return-with more resources than I left with; and find my niche in rebuilding a conflict-weary, battered city."  


"What does that have to do with me?"  


"Until they're done, you won't be able to tell the good guys from the bad guys. Right now, returning to police work would be pointless. I could knock Loeb off his perch before I leave town, but after I leave, you’re right back where you started. I'm offering you a time out. I need a bodyguard; someone I can trust. The only person I trust completely that's already in my employ is Gabe; and he'll be with my mother, in an undisclosed location. I know you; I know you despise me; I also know if you accept a job, you'll do it to the best of your ability. And I'll pay you handsomely. In addition, you can quit at any time you please."  


“You've got my attention. Keep talking."  


"I've been preparing for this for quite some time. I have a lovely home in Brazil, and a fortune concealed in accounts outside the United States. I have dual citizenship, so I’ll never have to fear extradition. Best of all, I'll be able to keep my hand in matters of business-from a safe distance. The cover story will be that I had to leave because of an unfortunate incident; I murdered you, in cold blood in front of witnesses-Gabriel, and my mother. Your blood stained clothing will be found, concealed in my nightclub. It will be enough for you to be declared dead. Whenever you decide to return, no one ever has to know you were in my employ. You can always claim to have been kidnapped."  


“Kidnapped by who? You? For what purpose?”  


Oswald rolled his eyes and fluttered his eyelids at the same time. “To be my love slave, I suppose. Really, Jim, we can deal with that later, are you interested or not? I don’t have all night.”  


“I should be locked up in Arkham for even considering this, but when are you leaving?”  


“Tomorrow night. Are you in or out?”  


“ I’ll think about it. But if I go, and find out that you’ve lied to me about one single thing-you won’t need to replace me, because I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.”  


Oswald sniffed disdainfully. “ I’m so touched by your display of gratitude, I may weep. Gabe will pick up you up tomorrow night at eleven. Be ready. Or not. You can see yourself out.”  
____________  
It was a long walk home, but it gave Jim time to think. He’d burned every bridge he had in Gotham, except for this one. He’d been living from paycheck to paycheck, and now he was unemployed. With Oswald leaving town, he had no ‘plan B” for how to defeat Loeb. Oswald’s offer was looking better by the minute.  
He stopped in the corner grocery and “Spinosa’s Discount Liquors” on the way. When he reached his building, he climbed the six flights of worn stairs to find his apartment still without air conditioning, and even hotter than it’d been that morning. He stripped down to his underwear, and sank into the sagging sofa. A few flies buzzed feebly around the room; good luck, he thought as he watched them, finding anything to eat. He opened up his own dinner- a box of cereal he’d gotten for half off, since it was past it’s expiration date; and a bottle of rotgut whiskey. He didn’t bother with a glass.  
____________  
When eleven o’clock arrived the next evening, Jim was just finishing off the last of the whiskey. He’d put on his one good suit, and as per instructions, had packed nothing to bring with him other than what was on his person. Gabe, taciturn as usual, drove him to a small airport near Goodwin International; and led him onto the private plane.  


Oswald looked him over. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re of no use as a bodyguard if you’re inebriated?”  


“Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Snow White?” Jim slumped in his seat.  


Oswald glared at him, but said nothing.  
Jim sank into a deep sleep before the plane took off. Oswald sat opposite him, watching. Jim shifted; mumbled something, then seemed to relax again. Oswald reached out, and brushed a few locks of golden blonde hair off Jim’s forehead.


	2. Sangria in the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two points of view merge.

“When you said you had a lovely home in Brazil, you were damning it with faint praise.” Jim had just been given the grand tour of Oswald’s residence in Rio de Janeiro, and was feeling overwhelmed-in a good way. “You failed to mention the view of the ocean, or the fact that it’s located in Sao Conrado.”  


“I’m certain that I failed to mention a great many things, considering that it was one conversation and I was pressed for time.” Oswald handed Jim a beer from the bar fridge. “Let’s sit out by the pool.” Folding glass doors spanned the back of the house, opening onto a generous patio.  
Jim settled into a deck chair, and took in his surroundings. “You also didn’t tell me you spoke fluent Portuguese. Do you speak any other languages?”  


“I can hold my own in French, German, and Italian; oh, and Spanish, of course; just the usual. I’ll tutor you in Portuguese, you won’t be able to get around without it.” Oswald gazed at the ocean for a few moments, lost in thought. “I may as well explain our cover story. I’m the only son of parents who make the late Thomas and Martha Wayne appear poor. I’m an eccentric philanthropist who collects- among other things- pre-Columbian pottery, and gorgeous men. You’re my latest acquisition. So whenever anyone else is around, make a fuss over me.”  


Jim responded with an incredulous stare. “You’re kidding.”  


“Not in the least. You’ll hug me, hold my hand, play with my hair, kiss me; make it look good.”  


Jim grimaced. “Would you like for me to give you manicures, and sit at your feet and play the guitar?”  


“Oh, are you a musician? I didn’t know, you’ll have to audition for me. I do think foot massages will be a regular occurrence, though.” Oswald took a sip of his beer. “It’s not a game. It gives you a reason to stay close to me without you waving a banner that says ‘bodyguard’ on it.”  


“It’ll take some getting used to.”  


“I’m sure you can manage. Next, I put no faith in the 24-hour security this community enjoys bragging about. Make sure you’ve armed at all times; well, almost all. I don’t expect you to wear a weapon into the pool or the Jacuzzi, but keep one nearby.” Oswald handed Jim a piece of paper. “Here are the alarm codes for the house, and the location of the keypads. It’s your job to check and double check that everything is as it should be. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m exhausted. Sleep well; tomorrow I’m taking you shopping. It’s truly a blessing that you had to leave the rest of your unfortunate wardrobe in Gotham.”  


Jim sat by the pool for a while longer, then closed up the house and retired to his suite of rooms. The furnishings echoed the rest of the house: modern, sleek, and luxurious. In his bedroom were several signed prints by Robert Mapplethorpe; he had no reason to doubt their authenticity. He stood on the balcony outside of his suite, and took in the panorama one last time before going to bed.  
He may as well have moved from one planet to another. The previous day, he’d been a disgraced ex-cop; broke, living in a dump, with nothing but failure and cheap booze to keep him company. Now, he was about to embrace an extravagant lifestyle in idyllic surroundings; in a foreign country; courtesy of Oswald Cobblepot. It was a bizarre combination of dream come true, and Jim’s worst nightmare.  
He lay down on the most comfortable bed he’d ever encountered, and slept the sleep of the dead.  


____________  


Slowly, Jim began to feel like a different person. He took care of himself; ate right, exercised, slept well, drank less. He worked diligently at learning Portuguese, went running on the beach, caught up on books he hadn’t had time to read and films he’d missed. He accompanied Oswald into the city for sightseeing; visiting museums; and at night, going to movies, plays, restaurants and clubs.  
Oswald seemed to have changed, as well. He dressed more casually. The eccentric suits went into storage, and colors other than black crept into his wardrobe. His hairstyle was softer, less sculptural. Even his limp seemed improved, to the point where he could go for walks with Jim. He had a number of friends in the community, who he introduced Jim to, and who they sometimes went out with.  


Jim begrudgingly developed an appreciation for Oswald’s dry wit, his intelligence, and his varied interests. Pretending to be a gigolo was irksome, at first; but, his employer was right. He got used to it. Jim was an attentive escort in public, and Oswald gave him plenty of space when they were at home. Weeks passed, uneventfully, each one blending into the next. It was fine with Jim; he’d had enough excitement in Gotham to last him a lifetime. He took his job as bodyguard seriously, but was thankful when there seemed to be little need for it.  


They’d been there for several months when, late one evening, Jim wandered into the kitchen to get something out of the fridge while Oswald was loading the dishwasher. Without thinking, he slid his arm around Oswald’s waist, and moved him out of the way; kissed him on the cheek, and gave him a pat on the butt.  


Jim realized, too late, that he’d unconsciously allowed his public behaviors to spill over into a private situation. When he turned to apologize, Oswald was blushing, bright scarlet.  


“Look, I’m really sorry, that was out of line. It was force of habit, I honestly didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”  


Oswald froze.  


Finally, he said, “It’s all right,” in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.  


“Seriously, I wasn’t trying to be a jerk,” Jim continued. “I know there was bad blood between us, back in Gotham, but we’ve been tolerating each other just fine lately. I wouldn’t do anything to screw that up.”  


Oswald, usually so self-assured, suddenly seemed to fall to pieces. “It’s all right,” he repeated. Finally, he set down the plate in his hand and retreated to his suite. He didn’t come out for the rest of the evening.  


Jim couldn’t figure out what he’d done that was so awful it’d made Oswald come unhinged. It’d been mild compared to some of the things he’d done in public. He tried to shrug it off, but it needled him. He didn’t like the thought that he’d somehow hurt Oswald’s feelings, and he didn’t like the realization that Oswald’s feelings had started to matter to him. That night, he slept poorly for the first time since arriving in Brazil. When he dragged himself out of bed the next morning, he discovered he’d slept through his alarm.  


There was a terse note from Oswald on the kitchen table. “Gone into town to run some errands. Don’t forget our engagement this evening.”  
Jim supposed Oswald had called the driver they sometimes employed. He was annoyed with Oswald; he couldn’t do his job as a bodyguard if Oswald went parading around town alone.  


Jim moped around the house for a while, then went for a run. The breathtaking beauty of his surroundings failed to cheer him up.  


Oswald didn’t return home until late in the afternoon. By that time, Jim was thoroughly irritated, and determined to clear the air.  


“I don’t understand your reaction to what happened last night. “  


“I wasn’t upset, I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I was tired, and you took me off guard, that’s all. Would you help me with these?” Oswald deposited some shopping bags on a side table, then busied himself arranging fresh flowers in a convenient vase. “Mona will be picking us up in about an hour, I think I’ll freshen up a bit.”  


Jim wasn't buying what Oswald was selling, not for a minute; but decided to leave it alone. When Mona came by to pick them up, he played his part just as he always did.

Mona was a neighbor Oswald'd gotten chummy with. She was petite, middle aged, dark haired, energetic; and as youthful looking as cosmetic surgery and a personal trainer could make her. She could’ve been Oswald's older sister. She was an art dealer; her ex-husband was a city planner who lived somewhere in Australia; and her twenty something daughter, Antoinette, was a graphic designer with aspirations of being a musician. Antoinette was the reason for the evening's outing. She played guitar with a band that expended their energy on early 80s post punk covers, and Mona'd insisted they had to go with her to hear them play, just this once. The club was small, poorly lit, and grungy. Everything was black, except for the stuffing escaping from tears in the upholstery of the booths that lined two of the walls. They found a booth in the back; since there were no servers, Jim went to the bar to get a round of drinks.

"I asked for bourbon, neat. Hopefully it'll sterilize the glasses." He settled into the corner of the booth, put an arm around Oswald's waist and pulled him close. 

"I'm going to run backstage for a minute." Mona knocked back her drink. "You two lovebirds soak up the ambiance."

The ambiance consisted of so much cigarette smoke, the effect was that of a fog machine. The warm up act was a performance art piece which consisted of a young woman setting up a large musical instrument of her own invention, made mostly from cables, and playing it with her whole body. The haze of smoke and poor lighting made it difficult to see exactly what she was doing, but it sounded like a cross between whale song and an oil drum rolling down a hill. 

Oswald decided, “when in Rome”, and lit up his own cigarette. He leaned back against Jim. “You can’t say I don’t take you to the very nicest places.”

He kissed the back of Oswald’s neck; featherlight, just brushing his lips over the skin. 

Oswald shivered.

He’d never reacted like that to anything Jim’d done. Without thinking, Jim leaned him back, stroked his face, and kissed him, full on the mouth. Jim kissed him for real, passionately. It was warm and sweet and messy; he had his tongue in Oswald’s mouth, Oswald was kissing him back, his arms around Jim’s neck, holding on; neither of them thinking about how it was tender, gentle, and desperate at the same time; neither of them thinking at all. When their lips finally parted, they buried their faces in each other’s necks: and the table nearest their booth burst into applause. 

They were both red-faced when Mona sat back down. “James, Darling-did you just attempt to remove Ozzie’s tonsils, using your tongue? I can’t leave you boys alone for a minute! Anyone’d think you didn’t have a home to go to.”

Oswald resumed sitting next to Jim, who didn’t let him go far. “Jim’s such a beast, you just don’t know.” He patted his hair back into place, but looked pleased.

“Me? Don’t believe him, Mona, he’s a wild animal. Some days I think I’m going to have to sew my pants on.”

Antoinette’s band was awful, but Jim didn’t care. He was so happy, he wouldn’t have been able to testify as to whether Antoinette played the guitar, rode a unicycle, or performed a human sacrifice. High on endorphins, he allowed himself to relax and enjoy the gestures of affection that no longer seemed like work.

He couldn’t wait for Mona to drop them off at home; once there, he locked the doors, set the alarm; turned around expecting to find Oswald waiting for him. Instead, he heard the sound of Oswald’s bedroom door closing.

Closing, and the sound of the door being locked from the inside. 

Jim stood there for a minute, feeling an acute sense of loss. Then he got angry; at Oswald, at himself. He stormed into his own room, slammed the door loud enough that Oswald must have heard it. He wanted to throw something, break something, put his fist through a wall. He settled for punching the mattress, then throwing himself down on the bed and rubbing his hands over his face. “God, I’m the world’s biggest idiot.” He’d misread Oswald, misread everything. Oswald had no interest in him beyond his being a bodyguard. He’d embarrassed Oswald, and himself, and now he was going to have to apologize. Again. Shit. Oswald hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, probably felt strange that he’d proposed the charade in the first place.. 

He threw his clothes over a chair, and lay on the bed in his boxers, feeling numb, until he fell into a restless slumber.........

Something woke him up; voices. Who was there? He grabbed his gun, and moved quietly into the living room. The door to Oswald’s suite was standing open; he flattened himself against a wall, listening; hearing nothing, he entered, gun at the ready. 

“Hello, sweetheart! Miss me?”

Barbara stood over Oswald, who was handcuffed, gagged, and tied to the bed. She held up a butcher knife. “He took you on a swell honeymoon, didn’t he? Treated you like a king?” She was grinning, her eyes glittering. 

“It’s good to see you, Barbara. Let’s go out on the patio and talk.” Jim moved closer.

“Talk? About this?” She raised the knife; before Jim could fire, someone grabbed him from behind. Someone strong, who knocked the gun out of his hands, sent it flying, dragged him backwards. He fought the unseen assailant across the living room, smashing a glass coffee table, knocking artwork off the walls. He’d almost gotten the better of his opponent when he felt a needle being jammed into his leg. 

He screamed, again and again, until his screams filled the room and bled into the outer darkness.......................

Someone was shaking him. “Jim? Jim! Wake up!” It was Oswald.

“Oswald?” He sat up and grabbed his arm. “Thank God you’re safe, how did you get away from her?”

“Jim, there’s no one here but us. You had a nightmare.” Oswald flipped the light on. “From the looks of things, those pillows will never threaten anyone again.”

The room was littered with the remains of the bed pillows Jim had torn to shreds. The mattress was hanging half off the frame, sheets and blankets in disarray. 

Jim groaned. “Perfect. I hadn’t humiliated myself enough for one night, I guess. So now I’ve found a new way to make a fool of myself.” He looked up at Oswald. “ Now I need to apologize for waking you up, on top of the ...unwanted attentions. I’m sorry.”

Oswald looked around the room, which was in a shambles. “We’ll clean up the mess tomorrow. You can sleep in one of the guest rooms; or.... if you don’t want to be alone, you can sleep in my room.”

Jim stood up and started pacing. “ Shall I sleep across the foot of your bed, like a dog? Will you pet my head, if I’m a good boy? Or dare I hope for a sympathy fuck?” He stopped. “I’m sorry, you don’t deserve that. I get it, you don’t want me. I misunderstood. It’s not your fault.”

Hesitantly, Oswald approached him. “I brought you here for selfish reasons; to have you all to myself; thinking maybe if I got you away from Gotham, you’d learn to feel differently about me.” He placed his hands on Jim’s chest. “Now that you have, I’m all nerves; I’m afraid we’ll get close and you won’t like me, or I’ll do something stupid. I do want you, I’m just terrible at this.”

Jim placed his hands over Oswald’s. “Don’t tease me.” They went to Oswald’s room without talking, and sat down- on opposite sides of the bed.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. “Well. This is a little awkward.”

“Yes, yes it is.” Oswald looked at Jim’s boxers. “I see we have similar ideas about sleepwear.”

“Oh, right.” Jim pointed. “Yours have penguins on them.” 

“I was thinking you might get a laugh out of that; I mean, if you ever saw them. Because, of, you know. My nickname.” Silence. “May I.... touch you?”

Oswald looked so wistful, Jim laughed out loud as he scooted across the bed. “Come here.” He lay back on a pile of pillows, propping himself up

Oswald settled in next to him. He stroked Jim’s stomach as if it were a pet; then kissed him, and nibbled at his bottom lip. 

It was as if there’d been no intervening time between the kiss at the restaurant, and the present moment. Jim wrapped his arms around him, and picked up where they’d left off. They kissed gently at first, slowly; Jim curled the fingers of one hand in Oswald’s hair, and let the other wander to his butt; then under the waistband of his boxers. 

There’d been limits to the show they’d put on in public; Jim had always strictly obeyed the boundaries set for him, no matter how frustrated it made him. Now, he couldn’t get enough of having his hands all over Oswald; who responded with enthusiasm to Jim’s explorations, wriggling in a way that soon had them simultaneously moaning into the kiss. Jim started in on Oswald’s neck. “Your skin. Tastes wonderful.” Oswald threw his head back, giving Jim full access to this throat. He pressed his hips against Jim’s; they moved together, teasing and pleasuring each other.

Oswald pulled away, and trailed his tongue down Jim’s torso, stopping to thoroughly lick his stomach. He shucked off his boxers; pulled Jim’s off as well, and nuzzled into the thicker blonde fur between Jim’s legs before licking his lips and applying them in a way that made it impossible for Jim to hold still. He’d fanaticized about having Jim in his mouth so often; he knew exactly what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it. He made eye contact with Jim, pleased to see how completely wrecked he looked. He worked him with his mouth, tongue, hands; almost to completion; then stopped and reached into a drawer in the bedside table for lube. 

He slicked both of them, straddled Jim’s lap. They kissed, kept kissing as Jim wrapped a hand around their erections; they began moving, pushing and rubbing against each other. Jim’s other hand slid down Oswald’s back, and began massaging his derrière. Encouraged by the noises Oswald was making, he carefully slipped a well-lubricated finger inside him; a gasp told Jim when he’d found the right spot.

Oswald clung to Jim, pushing back and forth between his hands; biting down on his own lip so hard he drew blood. Jim licked the blood away, hungry for his lover’s mouth, kissed him as if he wanted to devour him. The movement of their bodies became as fluid as dancing; stronger, insistent, forceful, on and on until Oswald made a whining sound deep in his throat; his eyelids fluttered; he was saying Jim’s name as they both surrendered and let go, almost at the same moment, spilling all over each other’s torsos.

Oswald collapsed onto Jim; they held each other, shaking and coming down from the high, their bodies glistening with sweat. Jim mopped them off with a pillow case; pulled a sheet over them, and re-arranged the pillows so they could lie down. Oswald stretched and purred like a cat, as they snuggled into each other’s arms, and lay with his head on Jim’s chest. 

Jim stroked Oswald’s hair. “Now I wish I’d suggested this sooner.” 

“Mmmmm. Me, too. I had no idea that Mr. big tough lawman would be so delightfully cuddly.”

“You have no idea, what a cuddle monster I am. ” Jim was quiet for a moment. “It might be too soon to ask you this, and I hope I’m not being offensive. It’s, uh, about your hair.”

Oswald chuckled. “Shall I shave my head? Get a perm? Streak it purple?”

“I couldn’t help but notice that the rest of your...I mean your body, everywhere else...is kind of blondish brown; your eyes are that beautiful aqua color, and I think...maybe...oh, hell.” Jim floundered. “Ignore me and my foot-in-mouth disease.”

“Jim. You’re fine, the black is harsh, and it’s a bitch to maintain. Maybe it’s time to go natural.”

Jim wrapped him up in a bear hug. “I’ll be crazy about you no matter what color your hair is.” A few minutes later, Jim was snoring softly.

Oswald watched him, with a mixture of affection and concern. “Oh, Jim,” he murmured. “What have I done.”


	3. It's Such Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two women have a chat.

Barbara came to an intersection of inadequately lit hallways; she gotten turned around twice, but now she felt confident she was headed in the right direction. The walls were painted the color of dried mud, a color that seemed to absorb what little light there was. If the place had been cleaned in the last decade, there was no sign of it. Pieces of old furniture were indifferently scattered about, hosting cobwebs and layers of dust. She occasionally heard skittering noises, and didn’t let herself think about what might be causing them. Arkham Asylum seemed to have fallen out of space and time, from some Victorian horror novel, and landed in the middle of Gotham. She was certain that anyone who wasn’t insane when they got there would be so when they left. 

She found the office she was looking for; the name “Dr. L. Thompkins” unevenly lettered onto the wavy greenish glass set into the heavy door. She’d waited for this moment for a long time. 

Leslie was standing with her back to her, staring out the dirty glass of a single, small window. 

“Dr. Thompkins.”

She turned to Barbara, unsmiling. “Ms. Kean. I’m still not sure I should be seeing you. I know you must be bitter; angry about how everything’s turned out, and I don’t know how I can help you.”

“May I sit?”

The two women sat, one in an upholstered chair that smelled of mildew; the other behind a wooden desk covered in questionable stains. Barbara cleared her throat. “The legal issues are all settled; it was my decision that you, personally, were held blameless. You weren’t sued; you’re still able to practice psychiatry. But I still need answers, that I can’t get any other way; I need you to talk to me.”

“I may not have been sued, but my reputation is ruined.” Leslie smiled, ruefully. “You see where I’m working now; it’s the only job I could get. After the Wayne Clinic settled with you, and closed, I was hounded until I had to give up my apartment. I’m still living with my boyfriend, Alfie, at Wayne Manor; which, thankfully, has security that keeps the reporters out.” She sat back and sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Go over it- all of it- with me. I’m trying to find closure, and I’ve never had a chance to talk with you, hear your version. Please.”

Leslie took a deep breath. “You brought your fiancé, Jim, to us after he suffered a severe psychotic break. The police investigation stated he’d been injected with an unknown substance, by an assailant that broke into your condo.”

“That’s right. Jim went downstairs one night, when he couldn’t sleep; I heard a fight, called the police. When I went downstairs, a man wearing a bandana over his face was standing over Jim; he ran out the front door, and then Jim...started screaming and didn’t stop until he was sedated.”

Leslie nodded. “So, of course, when he was released from the hospital, you had him brought to Wayne Clinic. I was proud to be working there; it was the best private sanitarium in Gotham.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “After Dr. Wayne and his wife were murdered, Dr. Frederick Dunstein took over as chief of staff. Dr. Dunstein was the one you spoke with whenever you visited Jim, isn’t that right? Wasn’t he the one who kept you updated about Jim’s condition?”

“Yes, that’s right. He seemed so confident that Jim was improving.”

“Then I wish you and I had talked, I would have told you a completely different story. I was assigned to Mr. Gordon’s case. At first, he was completely unresponsive; gradually he revealed that he was living in a complex fantasy world. He remembered nothing about being a lawyer, and the details of his life were twisted beyond recognition. He thought he was a police detective; you were a murderer, confined to Arkham; I was a coroner, and his girlfriend. He imagined Detective Bullock, who worked on the case, to be his partner.”

“Detective Bullock told me there were other cases, of people being assaulted and injected with an unidentified drug; but they all died.”

“All but one, and she was never coherent again.” Leslie coughed into her hand. “Excuse me. I tried everything to help Jim. Medications, therapy, even shock treatments. Nothing helped. I consulted with other psychiatrists, and that’s how Dr. Cobblepot became involved.” 

Barbara picked at her manicure. “You knew him. Tell me about him; I only saw him once, for a few minutes.”

“Oswald and I went to medical school together, at John Hopkins, in Baltimore. He came from an extremely wealthy family, and he was brilliant; so far ahead of the rest of us it was almost frightening. His parents could have afforded to send him anywhere, but had he been destitute, he could have gotten scholarships anywhere he wanted. He was introverted; kept to himself. I was probably the best friend he had.” 

“And he seemed ethical to you?”

“Completely. He was a workaholic, donated money and time to charities. His work was his whole life; he was ambitious, determined to be the best in his field. It never occurred to me that I shouldn’t trust him. After he vanished, I found a letter from him on my desk. I panicked, and destroyed it. But I told Detective Bullock what was in it.”

“Tell me. I want to hear it from you.”

“He said he was convinced that Jim would never get any better as long as he stayed in Gotham; that Gotham itself was part of the problem, that the only hope was to take Jim to a completely different environment. Jim imagined Oswald to be some sort of crime boss; he played along with Jim’s fantasy, to convince him to leave with him. He claimed that he’d never had any sort of sexual relationship with Jim, but...he’d fallen in love with him.”

Barbara exhaled. “My private detectives haven’t found them; and my boyfriend, Harvey, tells me I need to give up. Jim and I were going to split up anyway. We were still friends, but the relationship had run its course, and we were openly dating a variety of others. Jim dated men as well as women, so I have to wonder if your Dr. Cobblepot’s feelings might have been reciprocated.”

Leslie looked puzzled. “You’re dating Detective Bullock?”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. Harvey Dent, he was one of Jim’s partners at the law firm.” Barbara stood up. “I appreciate your time, Dr. Thompkins. I don’t blame you, I never have. I’ve done the best I could for Jim, but Harvey’s right. I have to get on with my life. I’m sorry about how all this turned out for you.” 

“Thank you. For you as well.” The two women shook hands, and Barbara re-entered the grim looking hallway. 

Leslie sat back down at her desk. There was a stack of paperwork to catch up on. There always was.


	4. Such a Perfect Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two pairs in two locations, produce two winning combinations.

Jim looked up from his book, at the view of the ocean from their patio. The way the golden, late afternoon light transformed the landscape was magical. He been thinking about taking up photography again, and living in a tropical paradise was a provocative motivation. 

He looked over to see Oswald dozing on a nearby lounger. The magazine he was reading had fallen out of his hands, his hair was mussed; he looked perfectly relaxed, and so damned young. In the weeks since they’d first discussed it, Oswald had allowed his hair color to grow out; and now it was a soft, warm brown. 

Jim was counting his blessings when he heard the doorbell. 

He left their guest in the living room, returning poolside to wake up Oswald. 

“Ozzie.” He leaned over him, his face close to his ear. “Ozzie. Listen to me.” There was a quiet sense of urgency in his voice that made Oswald instantly alert.

“What’s the matter?”

“Let me do the talking. Follow my lead.” Jim whispered. “Stay calm, and smile.”

He helped Oswald up; took him by the hand and led him inside. A grizzled, unkempt man with a scraggly beard was sprawled across a chair, with a drink in his hand.

“Oswald, you remember Detective Bullock.” Jim reached for Harvey’s glass. “May I freshen up your drink, Detective?” 

“Sure thing, Mr. Gordon. How’ve you been, Dr. Cobblepot?” 

“Never better, Detective. My, you’re a long way from Gotham. May I ask what brings you here?”

Brazen, Harvey thought. “There’s been a rash of cases similar to Mr. Gordon’s, and he’s the only person who’s survived being injected with what we now think is a version of Gerald Crane’s fear serum. So I wanted to talk to him.”

“You’ve come a long way for the little I can tell you; and please, call me Jim. “He handed Harvey the glass. “I read about the Crane case-horrible, what he did to his son. What makes you think this is related to what happened to me?”

“My partner, Carlos, and I were the ones who took Crane down. When forensics got there, they discovered his house had been ransacked. His research, notes, hard drives, all gone. There were some samples of the serum that he had on him when he died, so at least we had those to analyze. Then last week, there was a break in where the intended victim shot the intruder dead-and we got a syringe full of the stuff we think you were shot up with. Our guy Nygma says the two drugs show a number of similarities. It’d be helpful if you’d talk to me about your experience.”

Jim joined Oswald on the sofa, and draped an arm around his shoulders. “I was attacked by someone I thought was a burglar. They jammed a syringe in my leg, and I blacked out. I don’t remember being afraid, when I was delusional; my fantasy seemed completely real, a whole world that I inhabited, like a dream. I imagined I was a police officer, who ended up broke and unemployed, wallowing in self-pity and the memory of failed relationships and broken dreams. It was more depressing than frightening.”

“But you’re fine now?” Harvey scrutinized Jim. 

“Yes. I’ve recovered all the memories of my former life; and, that happened right before I left Gotham. It was a lot to deal with. Oswald offered me a chance to get away from Gotham, start fresh. You’ve got to admit, Gotham can be a gloomy sort of place; nasty climate, and it held a lot of bad memories for me.”

Harvey looked skeptical. “I got a different picture. As in, one of your doctors became obsessed with you; used your delusions to trick you into running away with him, and destroyed his career in the process.”

Jim smiled. “That’s quite a fairy tale; and, completely impossible to prove in court. As a lawyer, I should know. There’s nothing illegal about two consenting adults of sound mind, leaving their former jobs to start a new life together somewhere else. Failing to inform my ex-fiancé, or my partners at work, makes me an asshat-not a criminal.”

“So the drug just wore off by itself. You gotta admit, though- if you could fine tune it, you could use it to create a delusional state, and then control a person; get them to do whatever you wanted.” 

“You think like a criminal, Detective. You must be one of those profilers, the kind we see on television. Would you like something to eat? Another drink?” Oswald hid his anxiety behind a show of hospitality.

“No thanks, I’ve bothered you enough. This trip is a combination of business and pleasure. My girlfriend’s waitin’ for me at the hotel. I told her I wouldn’t be gone long, and I don’t wanna risk disappointing her.” Harvey grinned. “She’s a redhead; it’s bad for your health to disappoint redheads. One more thing, though. I didn’t have much trouble tracking you down. After you vanished, your ex hired some private detectives to find you. They told her they couldn’t; I got a source that says they were paid off to tell her that, but my source didn’t know who did the payin’. You got any ideas?”

“None. Can I see you out?” Jim walked Harvey to the door. “Don’t hesitate to call if you have any more questions.”

He returned to sit next to Oswald. “Let me start. I began getting my memory back a few weeks ago, after the night I tore my room apart. I was waiting for the right time to talk to you about it. Everything was going so well between us, I didn’t want to rock the boat.”

“This is what I brought you here for-to get well.” Oswald took a deep breath. “The first time I saw you, you were sitting in your room, your head down; your hair in your face. When I spoke to you, you lunged at me; pushed me up against the wall and told me you’d warned me never to come back to Gotham. I became part of your fantasy world. 

Dr. Thompkins tried everything. Medications didn’t make a dent. She tried shock treatments, as a last resort. I went to see you after one of them. You were unresponsive. As I turned to leave, you came up behind me and put your arms around me. You wanted to kiss me. You said you knew it was wrong, that I was a criminal, and a murderer. You said you’d been fighting your feelings for me since the day you threw me off the end of a dock, and you couldn’t stand it anymore, you couldn’t live without me. So I kissed you. I started making plans that very day, to bring you here. After a few days, you forgot about kissing me, and reverted to a fantasy where we were enemies, so I played along. Do you hate me, for what I’ve done?”

“Hate you?” Jim leaned in, and captured his lover’s lips with his own. “ You were willing to sacrifice your whole life, to help me.” Jim lifted Oswald onto his lap. “ I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Being a lawyer and a psychiatrist may not be as colorful as being a cop and a crime lord, but I think we’ll manage. That is, if you think I’m a keeper.”

“I know you’re a keeper.” Oswald’s eyes were wet; he wrapped his arms around Jim’s neck. “And I love you, too.”

As the stars came out, they cuddled, and kissed, and talked; and neither of them mentioned Gotham, or even thought about it.

________________

Harvey Dent always took time to flirt with the svelte blonde at the front desk. He made it a practice to flirt with almost everyone he met; business, pleasure-you never knew how someone might prove useful, someday.

“Doctor Dunstein said to send you right up, Mr. Dent.”

Harvey whistled in the elevator, eager to see what progress his friend’d been making. “Freddy! How’s my favorite business partner doing?”

The doctor rose to shake Harvey’s hand, his slender frame silhouetted by the light from the array of windows. “Quite well, Counselor. I’ve had some progress with the latest subjects; the ones I’m working on here, experimenting with the dosage. I’m sure you don’t mind that I’ve killed off a few of the people on the list you gave me.”

“Not at all.” Harvey flashed his most sincere smile. “I needed them gone, or under my control, it didn’t matter which. When you get this serum of yours perfected, it’ll be a gift from the gods. Until then?” He shrugged. “You have to break some eggs, right?”

“Indeed. How is your lovely fiancé, Ms. Kean?”

“Wealthy. I can’t thank you enough for getting Jim out of the way. It would’ve been a shame for all that money to go to waste; and if it’s not mine, that’s such a waste, don’t you agree?”

“Unless it’s mine.” They both laughed. “I suppose we have the late Dr. Crane to thank for doing the original research for us, on our joint venture. Shall we drink to his memory?”  
The two men chatted for a while, before Harvey had to hurry away to meet Barbara. As he was leaving, he looked back, recalling a quote from “Julius Caesar”: “Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, He thinks too much; such men are dangerous.” Inexplicably, he shuddered; his grandmother always said that meant someone just walked over the site of your future grave. 

The doctor sat for a long time, drinking his brandy; and enjoying the breath-taking view of the city his office afforded him. He’d selected the building, and this office in particular, for it’s aesthetic appeal. 

No one could ever accuse Dr. Dulmacher of having less than exquisite taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the link to the artwork that prompted me to write this:
> 
> http://gobblepot-nsfw.tumblr.com/post/128198091951/gobblepot-therapist-au-my-friend-asked-me-to-do


End file.
